A GIFT TO MYSELF ON MOTHER'S DAY

I was in mortal terror
of my mother.
Each time I turned
the key
to get into my home
my fingers shook:
I didn't know
what awaited me,
or who she'd be.
She was quick
to anger,
fast with her hands,
and liked to slap
the shit out of us;
or riled up my father enough
so he would do it. He,
I later realized,
was afraid of her, too.

I looked
for consistency
in other people
& other lovers
& either left
before they did,
made sure they
would leave or
didn't love them enough
to care either way.
My fears I could control,
but usually failed,
their fears
never registered.
Obviously,
I was in the wrong
life. The only consistent thing
I found in humans
was its cruelty
to other humans
and I already
hated myself
enough.

The one constant I found
was writing,
but then something
needed to be stilled
(at least a little),
to do that.
Booze&dope
helped.
The advertising was mostly
true: one was usually eighty-six proof
and the other usually did
what it was supposed to do--
fuck the hassle in getting it.
Now,
luckily,
the writing
is enough.

Not too long ago
I bought one of those
Life Alert buttons
for my mom; I put it
in her coffin.
I told them to program
my number first. Should she
ever come back
to what we call "life"
I want to be
the first
to know.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014